A few days ago, I found an old manila folder with the poem below tucked in it, a poem written by me almost 20 years ago.

Reading the poem led me right back to the small patch of grass where, squatting in complete absorption and wonder, I watched a bee courting a globe of clover.  Right then, nothing else existed for the bee—or for me.


as if the orb of purple clover
were just created yesterday
when I saw it captivate
the hovering honey bee,
everything I see amazes me.
Imagine sucking nectar from
a single whorl of clover.

Imagine finding nectar
in each word uttered,
in each moment found.
The blue sky is more beneficent
the gliding hawk more
graceful than ever. Vast
gratitude leaves me silent,

I long to tell because telling
is my habit, as if beauty
were more real and lasting when
wrapped in words and offered.
Now everything is wrapped in the silence
from which it was imagined. There is a dance
spiraling into my cells and muscles,
I step and fly in rhythm.
to its undercurrent—
a pulsing that never ceases.

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